


Just Another Coffeeshop Story

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Bully Dan, Bullying, Depression, Emo Dan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Hate to Love, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Phil, Lonely Phil, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug, Popular Dan, Punk Dan, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another coffeeshop story - except it isn't. When Phil meets Dan, twisted, legendary Dan Howell, nothing goes right except when it does. After all, when the most popular, most feared kid in school starts bullying you, your life is over. Right?</p><p>Not quite.</p><p>Not if he falls in love with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Exactly A Happy Beginning

It was Phil's first time here, and he wasn't sure whether to like it or not.

On the one hand, it was nice. Armchairs, modernish prints, quiet music; the whole package. But on the other hand. . . 

There were just so many _people_. Phil counted at least 20 kids from his own school, plus the music college students, the ones from the other secondary, the older teenagers. . . 

He stirred his spoon slowly through his still-too-hot coffee, trying to collect his thoughts. "You're here on a project," he told himself firmly. "Homework. That's all. No need to be scared. . ."  
But deep down he knew he was. He'd always had this. . . this fear of new people, new places. It was horrible and intimidating but, god, he couldn't do anything about it, and now here he was in some coffeeshop he'd never been to before, waiting for his stupidly late partner to arrive with _everyone_ looking at him and everyone. . . 

"Hey Philip."  
Grady flopped into the seat next to him, wearing a dumb smirk as always. He was tall, fair, good-looking in a lazy, slouchy way. Jeans. Converse. Skinny tops. The girls were already crazy over him, something Phil would never experience no matter how hard he tried. 

It doesn't matter, Phil. 

Grady pulled out a notebook and a battered biro, glancing at Phil as he did so. "You wanna get started?"  
"Sure," Phil replied, grabbing some paper and pen from the disorganised mess that was the contents of his backpack. He always meant to clean it, but somehow never found the time. Another of my many flaws, he thought, and somehow felt close to crying. 

" . . . and you write about- Woah!"  
There was coffee all over the table. More importantly, there was coffee all over Grady's half-finished essay. "Shit, Philip!" Grady glared furiously at him. "That took me ages to write!"  
"S-sorry," Phil choked out, glancing down at his overturned coffee cup and inwardly cursing his natural clumsiness. "I'll g-go get some napkins. . . "  
"You better!"  
Phil walked hurriedly off towards the counter. _Too_ hurriedly. Before he knew what was happening he felt his hipbone bump a table, and then everything seemed to go in slow motion. There was a crash. The table rocked. A coffeecup flew through the air almost elegantly, and Phil felt a sudden sodden warmth seep into his trousers. He instinctively looked down.

"Hey, little queer." A distinctive voice cut through the swearwords, cut through the stares, sliced straight into Phil's ears. "Next time you decide to spill my coffee, you faggot, could you do it without pissing down your legs like a mewling injured kitten?"

Phil's mouth opened slightly, shocked from the sudden torrent of abuse.

The mocking voice continued. "Also, my little dribbling cunt, I'd appreciate it if you didn't get your limp dick horny over my fucking bag, you cum-licking genetic freak. Now, toddle off and go play with some hairy whore's dick, pussy."

Phil glanced down at his ruined jeans - they used to be his favorite pair - before realising that trying to hide the coffee stain made him look like he was holding his crotch. His cheeks coloured flame-red, and he made a futile effort to ignore the laughter ringing in his ears.

"What's the matter, slut? Got nothing to say? Too busy planning exactly which five paid pricks you're sleeping with tonight? Take it like a man, you cock-sucker. Oh wait, I forget, you aren't one. You're just a sad excuse for a girl growing a pathetic pair and getting it sweaty. Fuck off, gay. We don't need desperate stalkers here."

There was nothing he could do. Phil blinked hard as he felt a rush of tears threaten to engulf him. He felt a rough hand grab his chin and jerk it upwards, fingers like needles against his skin. "Aren't you going to at least look at me rather than work your tiny balls? Here I am, little shit-stained kitten. Here I fucking _am_."  
Phil's helpless eyes met a stingingly scornful gaze. He flinched as he looked back at the boy glaring death, seeing in a daze the tattoed right arm, the blacky-blue dyed hair, the dark shirt, the ripped black jeans and the tattered blue-black Vans. He said nothing, and his tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

The boy's lips flickered into a hard, mocking smile. "Before I forget, bitch," he said with a slow, twisted grin, "that guy who just told all your classmates the truth about you? His name is Dan. And if you think your life is fucked up now, it's only gonna get worse."

With the mocking laughter of his so-called friends torturing his eardrums, Phil fled.


	2. What Happens On The Bus. . .

He hadn't wanted to go to school on Monday, hadn't wanted to go to school full stop. But despite begging, pleading, faking illnesses and downright grovelling, his parents had informed him, in a very final tone of voice, that he was going. And that was that. 

"Bye!" his mother shouted from the kitchen, waving cheerily. Phil hadn't the heart to say anything. He slinked off to his bus stop and pulled his hood up, trying to avoid the curious, or worse, hostile, looks he was getting. 

The bus pulled up. He felt someone shove his shoulder, hard. He didn't respond.

His nostrils were assaulted by a terrible smell the second he stepped on the bus. "What?" he murmured quietly, confused and feeling slightly queasy. Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. Phil cautiously walked up the aisle, keeping one eye on everyone around him.

The thing about Phil's bus was that it had seats. _Assigned_ seats. They weren't formal and no teacher knew of their existence, but every year the 15-year-olds at the back would dole out positions to everyone, from the smallest Year 6 to the biggest Year 11 rugby players. Every year, the cool kids in Phil's class would lounge at the back of the bus. Every year, Phil would be the only one left in the middle. 

So in hindsight, the fact that there was a small pile of dog poo on his seat should have been slightly less surprising. 

Phil stared down, revolted, at the sticky mess covering his seat. It looked. . . fresh, oozing. Christ. Phil glanced across the aisle to the three-seater opposite him. Two kids, younger than him, talking loudly over the rap pumping from their phones. "Hey!" he shouted, and they turned, scanned his seat, sniggered. Phil sighed and walked up the aisle. 

"Nope."

"Mmm-mm."

"Really?"

"As if!"

"Get lost."

"Prick."

"No chance."

Everyone said no. No-one would let him sit down.

Phil found himself facing the back row. One empty seat shone like a promise next to the murky window. "Um. . Can I-"  
"Really, my pant-pissing friend?"  
Phil's head jerked round as he saw Dan, sitting in the middle, tattoed right arm lazily flopping over the headrest next to him. He smiled slightly, and his teeth were bright under the bus's harsh lighting. "Sit in your _seat_ , you little faggot. It's where you belong." That smile again. "With the dog shit."

Phil saw the back row snicker, look at him with scorchingly strong hatred. He stood a little taller, looked a grinning Dan in the eye, then walked off the bus, ignoring the suprised bus driver. He passed his house and kept on walking.


	3. The Sky Is Blue

The walk had calmed him down. Before he was angry, scared, disbelieving, riding on the high of his emotions all the way down the countless streets. Now he was just. . nothing. 

Phil sat on a bench, glancing around. He half-snickered, but the sound was off, broken and harsh. The park. He was about to face the worst bullying of his life, the _worst_ , and he had walked to the park. "Nice one," he murmured sarcastically, kicking a stone as he tried to focus.

For starters, there was Dan. Legendary, terrifying, twisted Dan Howell, with his inexplicable hatred of Phil. No normal bully would go this far in tormenting Phil, but then again everyone knew Dan wasn't normal.

People were scared of Dan Howell. Some said he was a sadist, others that he was crazy. He'd datedcountless girls, left them obsessed and desperate only to never speak to them again. He shamed people, messed with their minds, trapped them in a vicious circle of hate and lies and insults until they were teetering on the brink of insanity. He never pushed them any further. He was bitter, nasty, almost elegantly cruel, but he would never hurt anyone. 

He would never hurt anyone.

Phil pushed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, rubbing away the tears that threatened to form. Of _course_ he was getting bullied by Dan. Of course he was. Nevermind the fact that he'd never spoken to Dan in his life, nevermind the fact that he'd never even glanced at him, nevermind the fact that he'd only knocked his coffeecup over, nevermind the fact that Dan was _younger_ than him, a _Year 8_ for God's sake! Why did he do it?

Why did he do it?

Phil was officially crying now, his red-rimmed eyes streaked with tears. Dragging his arm across his face, he shoved a pair of headphones on, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. But one sentence kept haunting him, slipping in and out of his mind. Why did he do it?

Muse echoing in his ears, Phil gave in and curled up on a bench, succumbing to a sudden exhaustion numbing his arms and legs. Within minutes he was asleep.

Of course, that would be the moment that Dan Howell walked past.


	4. You Have Crappy Headphones

He noticed Phil immediately, and on first glance his lips curled up into a hard, scornful smile. But then he hesitated. His morning had been fuck-awful, and. . . So he was in a sentimental mood. What did it _matter_ , for God's sake? So he was feeling sorry for Phil. So what? He could torment him more on the bus tomorrow. He could wreck his life. He still hated him, after all.

He still hated him. . .

Hesitantly stepping forward, Dan's eyes caught the drying tears on Phil's face, and his heart shook sudddenly. He snarled savagely and forced himself to stare at the back of his wrist, forced himself to look at the hideously scarred skin. "I am ugly," he stated, his voice full of utter conviction. "I am disgusting. I shouldn't be alive. Why the fuck am I alive?"

"I'm a coward."

"I'm weak and I'm scared."

"I am deformed."

"I should be dead."

"I should be dead."

"I should be dead."

His voice trailed off, but in his heart there was a blazing hatred of anything and everything, life and everyone in it. He was mended, so why did he feel so broken?

Turning away, he caught the faint noise of Muse and froze. He turned back towards Phil, and despite himself sniggered softly as the music grew louder.

"I might hate him, but he has great taste in music," he muttered wryly, pulling a pen - black, of course - out of his pocket. Rummaging around, he found an slightly torn Post-It Note and quietly wrote 'You have crappy headphones, but great taste in music.' Sticking it on Phil's - no, _Philip's_ , everyone called him Philip - battered MP3 player, Dan left as quietly as he had came.

Despite everything, he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like shouting "Curve BALL, Mr Howell!" Is that just me?  
> Anyway, hope you all enjoyed that chapter. I'm struggling a lot on the next one, but hopefully it'll turn out okay. Apologies in advance for any unusual lateness.


	5. Someone Else's Screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of time to write today, so this is up quicker than I thought it would be.

The note had helped.

Phil had taken it with him when he left the park, still wondering who could've written it. As far as he knew, no-one else at his school liked Muse, and if they weren't at his school then why would they write a funny note to a stranger?

It didn't matter. After all, he was still alive, despite having somehow rousing Dan Howell's anger. Dan _Howell's_ anger, for god's sake. Surely that was enough to be glad about?

"Maybe you're luckier than you thought," he said to himself as he left the by now deserted park, jamming his headphones back onto his ears for the second time that day. Humming along to Muse, he strolled down the street with a smile on his face. He was alive. Dan wasn't there. He had a note. Everything was okay.

Phil froze when he heard the screaming.

It-  
was a guy-  
in obvious pain-  
and-  
and-  
and-  
he was trying to stop-  
and-  
and-  
oh god-  
no-  
there was-  
a sound-  
of knuckles against skin-  
the impact of a body on the floor-  
and-  
oh god-  
screams again-  
a man's voice-  
"Shut up!"-  
and-  
a kick-  
another scream-  
ripped from the boy's lungs-  
and-  
stopitstopitstopitstopit-  
please-

Phil stood there, feet locked into position, as the person screamed.

sobbing-  
tears-  
trying so hard to hide it-  
the man-  
hitting him with something solid, something big-  
oh-  
no-  
the crunch of something-  
the scream louder than ever-  
no-  
stop-  
a laugh-  
the scream hastily choked off-  
panting-  
then-  
then-

Everything fell silent. "Oh," Phil whispered, and he was crying. "Oh, god, oh god-" The boy. The man. 

The crunch. . .

Phil stood still on the sidewalk, head full of imagined pictures. The man hitting the teen. His screams. The man angry, so angry, picking up an ornament, something long and heavy. Hitting the boy, blood smeared on his hands. Yelling. The crunch of bone, the teen's wrist maybe, and his screams cutting off as the man stepped forward to beat him again. Silence. The man was happy. "Told you not to scream," he'd say, and the boy coated in his own blood would say nothing. He'd wait until the man left and then-

And then-

His wrist, or ankle, or arm, or shoulder-

It was broken, surely.

What then?

Phil found himself shaking and tried hard, so hard to blot out the picture of the teen, broken and bruised and in agony. He couldn't. He knew he should go and help him, knew he should go and call the hospital so they could make him better. But then he thought of the man, the angry man, the man who laughed when the boy's bone snapped.

It was then that Phil Lester did the most shameful thing he had ever done. 

He ran.


	6. Author's Note

I promise this will be brief.

As anyone still reading this can tell, it hasn't been updated in months. A while ago I fell out of writing fanfic, and somehow i never fell back. When I reread my old works, I cringed. A lot. I've matured and improved so much since I first published this story, and to me it seems I've grown so far that there's an impassable distance between how I used to write and how I write now. I'm a different author: I tried so many times, but I can't continue this. 

Out of respect to anyone who still wants to read this, because I know some people occasionally stop by, I won't take this story down. I will, however, orphan this fic so it no longer appears under my pseudonym.

Thank all of you, each and every one, for supporting me even when I wrote badly. Every comment, every kudo, even every hit, means a lot to me. Who knows? I still write, though less frequently and, if I'm writing fanfiction, for different fandoms. Maybe I'll revisit Dan and Phil someday.

Here's to you. Have a good day.


End file.
